


To Be a Better Man

by Kivusa



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Build, Slow Burn, how slow though? we'll find out together...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-04-04 23:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivusa/pseuds/Kivusa
Summary: When Daud learns that Delilah is back and planning a coup, he returns to Dunwall to warn the Royal Protector and the Empress.It had been over a decade since he’d set foot in Dunwall, and he was not keen on going back. He remembered the bite of steel against his neck as he stared into the glass eyes of a metal mask, asking for his life, promising to leave Dunwall. It was not a promise he had ever intended, nor wanted, to go back on.





	1. And Choose the Other Path (Daud)

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, this is my first Dishonored fanfic, also the first fanfic I've written in awhile, ALSO the first multi-chapter fanfic I've attempted in an even longer while. I'm pretty excited about this though and _think_ I know what I'm doing...
> 
> Credit where credit is due: This story likely would not have happened without [this fanart](http://allcod.tumblr.com/post/171554252364) (the last one, where Corvo's asking why Daud is in Dunwall), because every time I scrolled passed that thing I kept wondering to myself "Well, why _is_ he in Dunwall?" And thus, this.
> 
> Oh, the title of the story and this chapter is from the song [Hoodoo by Muse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jWw0Rr47-M). I have a feeling I'm gonna be naming chapters from lyrics throughout, either from this same song or other songs that I feel might go with this story. Maybe kinda lame but I don't care hah.

Daud looked down at his desk, littered with papers, books, and journals. He leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk, and peered down at a journal that rested open in front of him. There were notes written across the pages in his small, neat script. The two pages open before him listed a collection of names, next to which were written the rumors he’d heard from them. It was a disappointingly small collection.  
  
At first glance, the rumors didn’t seem to have all that much to do with each other: a whisper of a witch here, a murmur of the Empress there, some grumblings about Duke Abele scattered throughout. Daud saw these various pieces of a puzzle, and it was coming together before his eyes. He was not pleased by the image it was forming.  
  
What had finally convinced Daud of the situation, convinced him where he did not want to be convinced, was the most recent piece of the puzzle. A name, one he had heard before, years ago, one he had hoped to never hear of again, a name he had wrenched from the lips of a witch that very day, a witch that had bore an unsettling resemblance to those he’d known before.  
  
The last line in the journal simply read: _Witch: Delilah_.  
  
He looked over his notes again, looking for anything that could convince him of something else, but there was nothing and he knew it. He knew it from numerous jobs he’d taken, the kind of jobs that required careful research and observation and the collection of subtle, arcane clues. He was good at putting bits of nonsensical information into something useful; he knew what he was looking at. He could feel it in his gut.  
  
But what was he going to _do_ about it? Was it even his place? What was the Empress to him now, after so many years had passed? It had been over a decade since he’d set foot in Dunwall, and he was not keen on going back. He remembered the bite of steel against his neck as he stared into the glass eyes of a metal mask, asking for his life, promising to leave Dunwall. It was not a promise he had ever intended, nor wanted, to go back on.  
  
He imagined writing a letter instead, a letter detailing everything he’d found, all the rumors and whispers and his suspicions that the Empress was in danger. A letter could suffice—anonymous, even. He imagined composing and writing it. He imagined the letter getting lost in transit, sinking to the bottom of the ocean with the leviathans. He imagined the letter not making it to the eyes of the Royal Protector and Spymaster, intercepted. He imagined the letter arriving, only too late.  
  
He pushed away from the desk, standing and turning from the small office crammed with bookshelves and boxes, towards the small window behind the desk chair and swung it open. He leaned over the window sill and pulled a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket. Letting the cigarette hang from his lips, he cupped his hand around the flame as he lit it and puffed it into life. He breathed deep, the smoke filling his lungs, warm and heavy, and slowly released it, blowing the smoke out into the clear summer air.  
  
He looked out over Karnaca, over the place he had called home for the past fifteen years. Passed the miles of gray buildings that tumbled downhill away from him, he could see the ocean shimmering blue under the midday sun, could see the ships in port and those leaving or arriving, reduced to smudges on the horizon.  
  
He took another drag. He watched the ships. He wondered which ones would soon be leaving for Dunwall.

 ~

Evening found Daud sitting in a booth across from Thomas, a tumbler of whiskey in his right hand and a cigarette in the other. The pub was a dingy, dirty place, stains on the splintery table and the floor tacky against his boots. Dimly lit and scattered with a few regulars, already drunk despite the relatively early hour, it was a place where Daud didn’t have to worry much about being recognized.  
  
Thomas threw back his whiskey.  
  
“Delilah, huh?” Thomas asked.  
  
Daud hummed.  
  
Thomas stared down at his empty glass for a moment, blond hair falling over his eyes as he thought.  
  
Thomas didn’t work for Daud, not anymore. But, since Thomas had arrived in Karnaca twelve years ago they had somehow kept in touch, meeting for drinks every few months. Thomas still told him any information that he thought Daud would find interesting, and Daud still listened. Some habits were hard to break. The only difference now was that Thomas refused any compensation for his information. Back when Daud led the Whalers, compensation was coin, and belonging. Now, the one time Daud had offered payment for information, Thomas had turned him down flat and said getting drinks was payment enough.  
  
“I have heard about some witches.” Thomas said. “I haven’t seen any with my own eyes, but there’s definitely more than usual, if the rumors are true. Nothing specific.”  
  
“Hmm,” Daud hummed. He tapped his cigarette over the edge of the table, letting the ashes drift to the floor. The silence stretched as Daud rolled the whiskey around in his glass.  
  
Thomas looked up at Daud, eyes narrowed just a bit, tapping a finger against his empty glass. His gaze was considering, perhaps a bit nervous. Daud leaned back and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“There is something,” Thomas said slowly, as if he still wasn’t sure if he was going to part with the information he had. The silence stretched for a moment. Two. “Billie Lurk.”  
  
Daud narrowed his eyes, frowning.  
  
“What about her?” He asked. The words came out as a growl.  
  
Thomas paused again.  
  
“I saw her.” He said. “A couple months ago, at the docks.” He shrugged. “She goes by a different name now. She was different in other ways, too. We spoke, briefly. Pretended not to know each other. She seemed to not want to dredge up the past.”  
  
Daud was quiet, watching Thomas. Billie was in Karnaca? Since when? All these years later, her betrayal still burned him. He could feel the heat of it in his chest, sparked to life at Thomas’ words.  
  
“She was with Delilah back then.” Thomas continued quietly. “I don’t think she is anymore, but…it may be relevant.”  
  
Daud let out a heavy breath.  
  
“You weren’t planning on mentioning it,” Daud said.  
  
Thomas shrugged again. “I didn’t want to bring up bad memories.”  
  
A part of Daud wanted to bark at Thomas that it didn’t matter what Thomas wanted, that Daud needed to know such things. That part of him was a relic from fifteen years ago. Thomas didn’t owe him anything anymore, least of all this.  
  
“I see,” Daud said, taking a pull from the cigarette and letting it dull the fire in him. “Was she…well?” The words left him before he could stop them.  
  
Thomas studied him. “She was,” he said.  
  
Daud nodded once, short, decisive. He took a drag off his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the table, flicking it away to land on the floor somewhere and be ground down into the muck under dirty boots.  
  
“There’s something brewing,” Daud said, drinking his whiskey. “What I did to Delilah back then…it seems it wasn’t permanent. And she’s planning something.”  
  
“The same thing from before?” Thomas asked.  
  
Daud shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps,” he said. “Her end goal looks to be the same.”  
  
“What are you planning?” Thomas asked.  
  
“Dunwall.” He said shortly. “I’m going to warn them.”  
  
Silence fell between them, heavy.  
  
“You’re going back?” Thomas asked, leaving the rest unsaid.  
  
“Mhm,” Daud hummed. “Least I can do.”  
  
Thomas fiddled with his glass while Daud raised his to his lips, drinking the rest of the whiskey down, letting it burn his throat.  
  
“Let me go with you.”  
  
Daud’s eyes snapped up to Thomas. He looked completely serious, lips turned down at the corners and eyebrows pulled over his brown eyes, which gleamed gold in the dim light. Daud was struck for a moment, remembering Thomas as he used to be, when he was practically a kid, stubborn and quiet, training to become an assassin with grim determination. His face had been softer back then, but his expression was the same.  
  
“Why?” Daud asked, at a loss. “You don’t owe me anything. Not anymore.”  
  
“That’s not what this is.” Thomas said, expression hardening. “You’ll be going back to Dunwall. After all this time, there’ll be enemies on all sides. Let me come. Let there be at least one ally on your side.”  
  
Daud stared Thomas down. Thomas didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, continued to stare unerringly back. Daud only saw determination in him. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation.  
  
Thomas had always been the most loyal one.  
  
“Alright.” Daud relented. Thomas blinked, seeming surprised. “There’s not likely to be anything in it for you though. No money,” he warned. “It’s possible I’ll end up dead.”  
  
“That’s why I’m going,” Thomas said, as if it was simple. “To prevent that.”  
  
Daud watched as Thomas looked back down, breaking eye contact. Daud wondered how he’d missed it—when they went from a subordinate who felt he owed his old master, to something that may be friends.  
  
Daud felt his lips pull up a bit, despite himself.  
  
“I leave tomorrow,” Daud said. “On the Viktora. Sunrise.”  
  
“I’ll be there.”

 ~

Two weeks later, Daud and Thomas stepped off the Viktora and into Dunwall. Into streets cleaner than Daud remembered, with the rat plague now a horror from the past, into thick air, muggy with burgeoning industry, into a place that was deeply familiar, made strange where it differed from memory.  
  
Now came the trick: getting close enough to the Lord Protector to warn him about Delilah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, I'm going for a pretty slow burn here.... I don't know how slow, but, let's just say I haven't gotten to any romancey stuff in my chapter outlines yet and I already have a few of those....
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://www.kivusa.tumblr.com) for those interested!
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I hope you guys liked it! If you did please leave a review, they make me giggle like a little kid!!


	2. Old Death, Where Are You Now? (Corvo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He remembered the Knife of Dunwall. He remembered his blade stabbing Jessamine’s heart while he’d been powerless to do anything to stop him. He remembered the assassin and his thugs disappearing with their daughter while Jessamine’s blood ran out of her. Everything, taken from him in an instant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that I have not read The Corroded Man, and my knowledge of the characters in that book is reduced to what I read on the wiki. I’m shamelessly using them for my own ends. So…If they’re not acting like their book-selves, or don’t look how they are described in the book…that’s why. I’m just doing what I want with them lol. (Also, don’t assume that what happened in The Corroded Man has happened here.)
> 
> For some reason it took me awhile to kinda get in the groove of writing from Corvo’s POV. I honestly would have expected Daud to be harder for me to write?? Weird.
> 
> Today's chapter title is brought to you by: [This Old Death by Ben Nichols](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9PswiAiQSi0).
> 
> And guys—wow! THANK YOU!! I can’t believe so many people have liked this story, and I hope you guys continue to enjoy it!!! You guys had me laughing and blushing all over the place last week!!

Corvo frowned at Jameson, who was sat on the other side of his desk. Papers were scattered over its surface. A moment ago, Corvo had been leafing through them as Jameson began his report, now they laid abandoned. Corvo leaned forward, papers shifting under his forearms, chair creaking, eyes boring into the man. Jameson looked back, seeming calm, but his eyes betrayed his unease.  
  
“What?” Corvo asked.  
  
“Uh,” Jameson cleared his throat. “There have been reports of the Knife’s return. To Dunwall.”  
  
Corvo continued to stare.  
  
Jameson licked his lips.  
  
“My contacts in the city,” Jameson said, “have reported rumors of his return. Credible sightings have occurred since two days ago. One of my own men reports to have seen him.”  
  
Corvo’s eyes slid down away from Jameson, staring into nothing. Something burned in his chest in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d watched Hiram Burrows’ execution.  
  
“Where was he sighted?” Corvo asked, voice sharp, cold.  
  
“West of the Financial District,” Jameson said. “He was alone. Wore a red vest beneath a black jacket. The sighting was brief.”  
  
“Anything else to report?”  
  
“Not at this time.”  
  
Corvo nodded. “Then you are dismissed.”  
  
Jameson paused.  
  
“Sir?” he said.  
  
“Is there a problem?” Corvo asked, clipped, eyes flicking back to the man. Jameson shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Corvo reined himself in, smothering the fire. He rubbed at his right temple.  
  
“What is it, Jameson?” He tried again.  
  
“Do you have any orders regarding this?” Jameson asked.  
  
“Talk to Officer Ramsey.” Corvo said. “I want more guards posted during the commemoration.”  
  
“Of course, sir.” Jameson paused, seeming to be expecting more. “Is that all?”  
  
“That is all.”  
  
“What about the Knife, sir?”  
  
Corvo’s patience was wearing thin.  
  
“If you find out anything else I want to know immediately.” Corvo said. “But do not seek him out, or engage with him. He shouldn’t know we’re aware of his presence. Spread word to your men.”  
  
Jameson nodded in deference though Corvo could tell that he wasn’t pleased with his answer.  
  
“Yes, sir,” he said, standing.  
  
Corvo leaned back in his chair as Jameson turned from him, leaving his office. As soon as the door clicked shut Corvo pushed himself away from his desk, standing. His back popped as he stretched and he grimaced; he’d been sitting at that damned desk for too long. He looked down at the papers scattered over it—none of them seemed to matter now. Everything he’d been worried about just five minutes ago paled against what Jameson had told him.  
  
He remembered the Knife of Dunwall. He remembered his blade stabbing Jessamine’s heart while he’d been powerless to do anything to stop him. He remembered the assassin and his thugs disappearing with their daughter while Jessamine’s blood ran out of her. Everything, taken from him in an instant.  
  
Then, later, he’d had the assassin on his knees, arguing for his life. And Corvo—Corvo had let him keep it. In the weeks after that day, he’d often wondered if he’d made the right choice. Some days, he had regretted it, others he had not. It’d been years since he’d truly thought on that decision, made so long ago.  
  
A decision that had been made on the understanding that the assassin _would not return_.  
  
And now he was back. Right before Jessamine’s anniversary.  
  
There was a knock at his office door.  
  
Corvo breathed and composed himself, straightening, calling for whoever it was to come in. Emily stepped through the door. As soon as she shut the door behind her, her shoulders slumped and relaxed as if she’d left some of her burdens at the doorstep.  
  
“Emily,” he said, tamping down on his dark thoughts.  
  
“Father,” she returned on a sigh, striding towards the desk and plopping down on the seat that Jameson had left. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair, making herself comfortable in a way that would’ve had Callista chiding her were she still around. Her black hair was pinned up in its customary style.  
  
“You look tense,” she said, eying him. “I saw Jameson leaving. Anything I should know?”  
  
“More of the same,” Corvo said. “Nothing worth mentioning.”  
  
Emily nodded. “No news about the Crown Killer, then?”  
  
Corvo frowned, shaking his head.  
  
The Crown Killer was becoming a major threat to him—but more importantly to Emily. The murders were beginning to undermine Emily’s rule and the public view of their Empress was plummeting. As Lord Protector and Spymaster both, it was his job to track down the killer. And yet, as messy as the crime scenes always were, his men were never able to find any leads.  
  
Emily sighed in disapproval, shoulders slumping even more.  
  
Corvo stepped around his desk and leaned against it, facing Emily. He put a hand on her shoulder, offering reassurance.  
  
“We’ll catch whoever is doing it,” Corvo said.  
  
Emily looked up at Corvo. Her eyes were tired. Corvo’s heart ached to see his daughter this way—she was still young, and yet she’d been through much, been forced to grow up too fast. Corvo did what he could to lighten her worries, something that his role as Spymaster helped him achieve, but it was never enough. His thumb gently rubbed her shoulder.  
  
“I miss her,” she whispered, suddenly. “The anniversary—it’s been so long now, but I still miss her.”  
  
Corvo’s throat seized up. Emily’s eyes were dry but there were shadows under them that the makeup she wore couldn’t hide. She stared at Corvo and her eyes were dull and empty. Corvo bent down and hugged her. Her arms wrapped around him, gripping tight, and she allowed herself to lean her face into his shoulder.  
  
“I miss her, too,” he murmured.  
  
They stayed like that for a time, quietly exchanging comfort and grief. When she was younger, she would curl into his side and cry until she couldn’t anymore. She was too old for that now, and Corvo mourned that fact. Now, the mantle of Empress weighed heavily upon his daughter, a weight that she could no longer seem to shake even in moments such as these. He held onto her tighter, hoping to give her his strength. Some long minutes later, she slowly leaned back and Corvo released her.  
  
“A couple more days and it will be over,” he said.  
  
“Until the next year.” She felt at her hair, making sure it was in place. “Could we go out to Waterfront tonight?”  
  
“Not tonight,” he said. They’d been using Old Waterfront as their training grounds for years, and any other night, Corvo would’ve said yes. But tonight he had other places to be.  
  
Emily frowned at him.  
  
“Paperwork,” he said, tilting his head towards his desk. “Tomorrow night?”  
  
“Alright,” she said, frowning.  
  
Emily stood and smoothed her hands over her clothes.  
  
“Thank you,” she said. She leaned in for another, quicker hug. “I love you, Father.”  
  
“I love you too, Emily.” He smiled, but it was sad. “My daughter.”  
  
She left after that, back to her duties. She never could avoid them for very long, and though they lived in the same building, too often they only saw each other for a few spare minutes and at the odd meal. And when they did see each other, their conversation consisted only of their respective jobs and duties.  
  
He suddenly wished that he’d said yes to Emily’s request. It’d been weeks since they’d trained together and he missed it, keenly. It was one of the only times he felt that they were both free of their courtly duties, and he got to _really_ see Emily, his and Jessamine’s daughter, not the Empress of the Isles. And though part of Corvo hated that training his daughter in such things had been necessary, another part of him was proud of the skills she’d mastered. From all of ten years old she’d taken to it easily. Now, she was nearly as good as he’d been at her age.  
  
Corvo stayed leaned against the desk for a few moments longer before he gathered his things. His knife, his crossbow, his coat with the hood. He did not take the mask. He left through his office window, climbing out onto the ledge and closing it quietly. He looked out from the tower, down at the grounds and beyond, towards the bulk of Dunwall and the Wrenhaven that snaked through its center. The sun was just beginning to set, casting Dunwall in a hazy, orange glow that turned the perpetual smog over the city into something beautiful.  
  
He looked to the familiar path he often took down from the tower, clenched his left fist, and blinked.

~

Though the Financial District had largely been restored from its time as the Flooded District, there were still areas that had yet to be fully rebuilt. Most of those areas lay to the west. Though the water had long been drained, blocks and blocks of buildings still lay abandoned and falling apart. The only difference now was that instead of weepers, it was the destitute and the criminal that filled the streets and buildings. A fitting place for an assassin to hide.  
  
Corvo blinked from rooftop to rooftop, peering down into streets and alleyways, looking through holes in roofs. He peered through windows, and crept his way through buildings that would be difficult to get into without his powers. He remembered the hideout that the Whalers had called home long ago, in the center of the Financial District, high above the streets away from the weepers. A place someone like Corvo, someone like the Knife, could reach with ease.  
  
He made his way to such places throughout the district, keeping watch for a flash of red, or a scarred face. It was unlikely that Corvo would find the assassin on his first night searching, but he pushed on, making use of the last of the sunlight.  
  
He perched atop a building, looking at the numerous others slowly crumbling away from weather and time. The sun had sunk below the horizon some time ago, and now there was only deep shadows and the faint gray light of dusk. Corvo would keep searching but his chances of finding the Knife in the dark were low. He would have to tell Jameson to send out feelers after all. Corvo would be the one to engage the Knife in the end, but it seemed he would need help finding the man. The sooner the better.  
  
There was a sound of displaced air, a warping of space. It struck him cold.  
  
Corvo looked down. On the lower rooftop to his right, wedged between the building he was on and another, taller, building, there was a man who hadn’t been there before, looking over the streets below. All Corvo could see in the faded light was white hair, slicked back.  
  
Corvo’s jaw clenched. He slowly stood and walked to the edge of the roof, looking down at the man below him. The light was too dim and the angle wrong to make out any other details. He didn’t need them.  
  
Corvo jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve introduced our leading men!!
> 
> This chapter was SO DIFFICULT FOR ME TO WRITE. It was like pulling teeth, it was going slow slow slow, like a lot slower than the last one. And it wasn’t just because I was writing Corvo, like the whole Tower thing— for some reason it took a lot for me to kinda wrap my head around what exactly Corvo does. And like, what is Dunwall like now? Cause we don’t see much of it before everything goes to shit in Dishonored 2. Like, guys, I legit _researched_ for this chapter. You think I knew anything about The Corroded Man before this chapter?? Nope. Just the title. Jameson? Only heard about him from other fanfic—pretty much assumed he was made-up or was from some in game note/letter. I learned Captain Curnow’s retired now. I learned about Zhukov. Like. All I got’s the barebones of the story but wow. And I googled maps of the city. Watched some videos of cutscenes on youtube for reference. And just. So much stuff. But I got it done, and I _think_ I like it. And now I feel like I have a better grip on their world.
> 
> Also, I didn't realize that there's only three years between Corvo and Daud? I thought they had a larger age difference than that (definitely made it look like it in the new games lol).
> 
> I'm going to tentatively say that I will try to post new chapters once a week, between Fridays and Mondays. :O
> 
> Hope you guys liked it!!!!


	3. You're Running Out of Time (Daud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was a shadow of a man on a roof in the distance, dark against the evening sky. He appeared on one rooftop, then disappeared in a blur and appeared on the next. Daud stood. His chair toppled over._
> 
> _“Looks like the Royal Protector has come to us,” Thomas observed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation! Woohoo!
> 
> Please take this, it's been basically done for a couple days but every time I look at it I _change something_. It's driving me nuts.
> 
> I thought about splitting this chapter up into two, but decided to keep it together, especially since it’s all in Daud’s POV.
> 
> Todays chapter title is from: [Ticking Bomb by Aloe Blacc.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7jVqok1bqw)
> 
> I'm kinda nervous about this chapter... Hope you guys enjoy!

Thomas was filling Daud in on the information he’d discovered in this strange, new Dunwall, where the plague was a distant memory along with Sokolov’s more macabre _defensive_ technologies. They were squatting in the top of a crumbling office building, the only upper floor room to still have its roof mostly intact. The room was drafty, and water trickled in through the the holes in the ceiling when it rained—which was often in Dunwall—but they had stayed in worse places before.  
  
Daud was forced to keep a low profile. Fifteen years ago, few had known the face of the Knife of Dunwall. Now, the Royal Protector and Spymaster knew his face, and likely all those who spied for him. Despite his best efforts, Thomas informed him that there were already rumors of his return. They would have to make their move soon.  
  
But figuring out just how to do that was proving difficult.  
  
“The Bottle Street gang is still around, but Slackjaw seems to have had a slight change of career,” Thomas was saying. He looked up from his notes that were spread across a moldy desk between them and suddenly stilled, eyes caught on the only window in the small room. Daud turned to look.  
  
There was a shadow of a man on a roof in the distance, dark against the evening sky. He appeared on one rooftop, then disappeared in a blur and appeared on the next. Daud stood. His chair toppled over.  
  
“Looks like the Royal Protector has come to us,” Thomas observed.  
  
Daud went to the window and swung it open. He was about to transverse away after the man, but Thomas grabbed his arm.  
  
“ _Take me_.” Thomas said.  
  
“It’s better if I’m alone,” Daud said, trying to shrug off Thomas’ grip, eyes tracking the movements of the Royal Protector on the rooftops.  
  
“I came here to be an ally,” Thomas said. “Let me.”  
  
Daud sighed and shot a heated glare at Thomas but didn’t argue any longer—he didn’t have the time with the Royal Protector disappearing in the distance. He grabbed onto Thomas’ arm and transversed them both out through the window.  
  
They carefully followed as the Royal Protector transversed—or whatever that was—from building to building. They watched as he searched through the shambling remains of offices or apartments and combed through the alleys from above. He was obviously looking for something—someone. Daud supposed it was probably him.  
  
The man finally stopped transversing. Thank the void; transversing with another person was _tiring_. Attano perched at the top of a high building, seeming to look over the streets. The sunlight had left, leaving a thin grayness in the air. Daud saw a low building near where the man was perched.    
  
Daud decided he’d let Attano have the advantage.  
  
Daud transversed himself and Thomas onto a crumbling balcony near the low building Daud had marked, just out Attano’s line-of-sight.  
  
“Don’t interfere,” Daud said to Thomas shortly.  
  
“If he doesn’t look like he’s going to kill you, I won’t.” Thomas countered. Daud frowned at Thomas but the man looked resolute. He forced himself to let it slide, reminding himself again that Thomas was not his subordinate anymore, that Thomas had come with him of his own free will, had insisted in fact, and Daud had let him. He no longer had the authority to order him to do anything—a fact which was proving to irritate him.  
  
Daud transversed to the low rooftop without another word, leaving Thomas on the balcony. He looked over the streets below but didn’t see them. He listened, tense. His neck prickled from the imagined eyes of Attano on him from above. He kept his eyes forward. He waited.  
  
Daud heard a rush of air and instinctively rolled, dodging as Attano tried to drop on him from above. He shot to his feet, spun around, sword unsheathed, and fell into a defensive stance, without thought. He hadn’t intended to draw his sword. _Fuck_.  
  
Attano stood where he’d been a moment before, the point of his sword reaching across the few feet between them. Daud couldn’t see much of the man’s face—he made out a bit of beard beneath the hood but the rest was in shadow. They watched each other. Daud moved his sword slowly, meaning to sheath it.  
  
Attano clenched his left hand into a fist and his mark lit up, a flash of white through the cloth wrapped around his hand. He slammed into Daud with a blur, and shoved him back in a few quick steps into the brick wall of a neighboring building. Daud’s jacket dragged along the brick and he let go of his sword. It clattered away from them against the roof. He spread his hands open, palms forward, and held them away from himself. Attano’s left hand dug into Daud’s shoulder, holding him against the brick and his blade pressed against Daud’s neck, a cold line.  
  
“Easy, bodyguard.” Daud grunted, controlling his breath, keeping still against the blade.  
  
This close, Daud could make out Attano’s face, changed from what he remembered. Brown hair cut short, beginning to gray, a short beard framing his worn face. His mouth was set into a snarl. He looked so similar to what Daud remembered, yet so different, much like the city around them.  
  
“Daud,” he spat like a curse. “Why are you in Dunwall?”  
  
Attano froze.  
  
A sword was pressed against the side of Attano’s neck. Thomas stared at Daud over Attano’s shoulder. Thomas might not have Daud’s powers any longer, but he was still a damned good assassin, he had to admit.  
  
“I thought,” Daud growled, “I told you not to interfere.”  
  
Thomas at least looked a bit guilty, but he stood his ground.  
  
“And I remember saying I wouldn’t—if it didn’t look like he was going to kill you.”  
  
Attano’s eyes bored into Daud.  
  
“Let him go,” Daud said.  
  
Thomas stared at Daud. His sword didn’t budge.  
  
“If he lowers his sword.” Thomas said.  
  
Daud’s lips thinned. He met Attano's eyes and raised his eyebrows. So much for giving the man the advantage.  
  
Attano slowly lowered his blade away from Daud’s neck until it was at his side. Thomas’ blade disappeared and he stepped back, giving the Royal Protector some space. Attano didn’t bother walking out from between them, he transversed a short distance away, near the edge of the roof, keeping the both of them in his line of sight.  
  
Daud let out a heavy breath, rubbing a hand over his forehead and through his hair.  
  
“This isn’t how I wanted this to go,” he muttered.  
  
Thomas still had his sword unsheathed, though at least it was pointed towards the ground. Attano’s blade was in a similar position. The three of them formed the points of a triangle.  
  
“And how did you imagine this going?” Attano asked.  
  
“With less blades,” he said.  
  
He dug around in his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. The silence between the three of them stretched as he tapped one out and lit it, taking a badly needed drag.  
  
“Why?” Attano asked, referring to his earlier question.  
  
“To warn you,” Daud said, leaning back against the brick wall.  
  
Attano’s eyes narrowed and flickered between Daud and Thomas. Thomas seemed content to watch Attano and stay silent.  
  
“There’s a coup coming,” Daud said. “I don’t know when. Soon.”  
  
Attano was quiet. Daud breathed in smoke, the end of his cigarette glowed bright in the dark, and released it on a long exhale.  
  
“Who?” Attano asked.  
  
“A witch,” Daud said. “Delilah. I’ve dealt with her before. Thought she was as good as dead.”  
  
Attano’s frown deepened.  
  
“The Knife missed a mark?” He asked.  
  
“Got tired of killing,” Daud said, impassive. “I seem to remember telling you that, once.”  
  
“A shame you couldn’t have tired of it sooner,” Attano bit out.  
  
They stared at each other. Attano’s eyes were cold and dark. They reminded Daud of the emptiness of the void, but he didn’t look away.  
  
“Is that all?” Attano said.  
  
“They’re hiding it well. I spent weeks searching for information. I know there’s a coven of witches with Delilah leading them. I know she wants the throne, and it appears that the Duke of Serkonos is backing her. I would’ve searched for longer but… I believe it will happen soon.”  
  
Attano stared.  
  
“Why are you telling me this?” He asked.  
  
“I owe it to you, don’t I?” Daud muttered, looking away.  
  
Attano barked out a laugh, dry and humorless. He began to pace, back and forth on the edge of the roof.  
  
“And you expect me to take you at your word?” He snarled. “The word of a paid killer? Who couldn’t even keep his promise to _stay away_?”  
  
“Of course not.” Daud frowned. “But I expect you’ll be able to find evidence, now that you know what to look for.”  
  
“I see.” Attano said, cold. “You should’ve stayed wherever you were. If this was some misguided attempt to put your guilty mind at ease, you’ve wasted your time.”  
  
Attano strode towards Daud, ignoring Thomas. Daud kept his relaxed position against the wall, not looking away from the man’s burning eyes as he moved into Daud’s space, too close. Attano’s blade stayed by his side.  
  
“Leave Dunwall,” Attano said, low, anger shivering through every syllable. “I will not hesitate a third time. I will kill you.”  
  
A moment of staring and Attano was gone in a blue tinged blur. Daud blew smoke into the place he’d been. He watched Thomas look around for a sign of the Royal Protector, and sheathed his sword when he saw nothing. Daud dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, then retrieved his sword from where it had slid towards the roof’s edge.  
  
“Let’s go.”

 ~

They went back for Thomas’ notes, then left the Financial District, moving further west and closer to the Wrenhaven. Daud had no intention of leaving Dunwall, not until he figured out what in the void was going on. They found an empty apartment they could get into through a window. Though it was on an upper floor, Thomas could still access the window without too much trouble. There were tenants living in the other apartments in the building, so they’d have to be discrete. It was an upgrade from where they were before, and not completely unfurnished, a few armchairs in the living room and beds in the bedroom.  
  
Daud sat down in one of the armchairs. He’d sent Thomas out after the Dead Eels, particularly Lizzy Stride, to find out what they were up to now. The news Thomas had shared about Slackjaw had been surprising—Slackjaw now went by Azariah Fillmore, and ran a legitimate business, selling exotic liquors from the distillery. Thomas said he was still running the Bottle Street gang, but was more careful about it. There were also rumors that Bottle Street sometimes helped out the Royal Protector. Unexpected.  
  
The room darkened. Daud blinked. Suddenly, walls were missing, the armchair across from him floated upside down in midair, black rock jutted into the living room from the left—where a wall should be. Beyond the missing walls of the room there was empty, blue space and the distant sound of whale song.  
  
Daud sighed and grit his teeth. He didn’t bother standing.  
  
“What do you want, you black-eyed bastard.” He said.  
  
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” The Outsider appeared a few feet away from Daud, hovering next to the chair.  
  
Daud watched the Outsider, unimpressed.  
  
“Fifteen years since you left Dunwall, and here you are again,” the Outsider began. Daud didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “And what are you here for? To warn the Royal Protector and his charge. How very…interesting.”  
  
Daud despised that word.  
  
“Surely you didn’t come here to tell me what I already know,” Daud growled.  
  
“Indeed not,” the Outsider said. Daud leaned back in his chair, arms on the armrests. He watched the Outsider. “You may find something interesting at the docks tonight,” he said.  
  
“Another hint?” Daud asked.  
  
The Outsider ignored him. Daud wasn’t surprised.  
  
“But will it be enough?” The Outsider asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Perhaps no matter what you do, the result will be the same.” The Outsider bent forward, black eyes boring into Daud, pinning him. “The anniversary for the late Jessamine Kaldwin is in two days.” Daud stiffened.  
  
“I’m aware.”  
  
“You’re running out of time, Daud.”  
  
The Outsider disappeared in a flutter of black. The room around him was suddenly back to normal, walls in place, the chair across from him firmly on the ground. Time resumed.  
  
Daud rubbed his temples.

He would’ve liked to ignore the Outsider but that was the most straightforward he'd ever been. He soon found himself at one of the smaller dockyards in Dunwall, the hood of his coat pulled up. It was the docks closest to the apartment. How was he supposed to know _which_ dockyard the black-eyed bastard was talking about? Daud sat on top of a building overlooking the docks.  
  
The small bay was filled mostly with small fishing and personal boats, along with more suspicious looking vessels. But there was one that was decidedly out of place.  
  
It was a large ship, new, sparkling and polished to a bright, reflective silver. An exquisite figurehead graced the prow of the ship, gleaming white under the moonlight. It was the figure of a woman. There was more detail carved into it, but from where Daud was, he couldn’t make it out.  
  
There was activity buzzing around the ship. Guards were present and appeared to be helping the crew unload, odd. Large crates, taller than a man, were unloaded from the vessel. More official looking people were milling about. A large railcar was waiting.  
  
Daud transversed himself closer, into one of the smaller boats next to the ship. From this close he saw that even the deck hands were dressed in fine clothes. A guard was directing the crew on where to put things and yelled at them to hurry.  
  
Daud frowned. He looked up at the ship next to him, quiet and serene in the still water, looking for a name on it. _The Conquest_. His eyes caught on the figurehead. It was beautifully carved. The figure was wrapped in thorns and—  
  
The figure was wrapped in thorns and roses.  
  
Daud grew cold. Now that he was close enough to see it, he recognized the style of the figurehead. It was the same style as Delilah’s statues. He couldn’t see the face of the figurehead, but he knew what it would look like. He remembered her face well enough.  
  
He transversed onto the ship itself and crept through it, easily staying out of sight from the crew and guards alike. The ship was as richly appointed as he expected. Below deck there was a study, a library, a dining room, a complete chef’s kitchen, and a master bedroom that would be at home in a palace. There was dark wood paneling throughout. The crew’s quarters and eating area was cramped and seemed to be there as an afterthought.  
  
Whoever owned the ship was already gone, leaving their employees to unpack. Apart from the obvious wealth, there was nothing that identified who the ship might belong to. The most incriminating find was a vase of red roses on the nightstand next to the bed.  
  
Daud stared at the roses. They were as red as freshly spilled blood, a sight he knew well. They seemed to glow, casting a faint red light against the wall behind the vase and on the nightstand’s surface. The thorns on the stems were jagged and gleamed as sharp as the edge of his blade. Daud did not touch them.  
  
This was what the Outsider wanted him to find. Delilah was in Dunwall. She had to be.  
  
Daud made his way back to the rooftops and waited as the ship was unpacked. When the railcar left, he followed it all the way to Dunwall Tower, where it disappeared past the guard checkpoints.

 ~

“The Knife of Dunwall. How ‘bout that.”  
  
It was four in the morning. Daud stood over Slackjaw who had been asleep in his bed, in his expensive apartment in the Estate District. The man had gone from asleep to completely lucid in a blink, a habit likely bred from necessity. His eyes were narrowed at Daud.  
  
“I shoulda expected it’d be you.” Slackjaw said.  
  
“If you were so lucky,” Daud said.  
  
Daud stepped away from the man, allowing him room to sit up.  
  
“Why’re you here then, Old Knife?” Slackjaw rubbed his jaw, free from the beard and mustache he used to have, hair gone gray, face heavily lined.  
  
“You work with the Royal Protector, from time to time.” Daud said.  
  
“Sell ‘im some specialty liquor."  
  
“You still lead Bottle Street,” Daud said, hand on the handle of his sheathed blade. “And you help the Royal Protector. Don’t lie.”  
  
“What d’you want?” Slackjaw asked.  
  
“I need you to pass along information. Not from me. From one of yours.”  
  
Slackjaw waited.  
  
“Tell him there’s a ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically rewrote this chapter a number of times. Two or three times? Something like that. And that was _before_ I added everything after the confrontation scene. It was difficult for some reason—again, I think it’s Dunwall giving me trouble, but it got easier and easier with each rewrite.
> 
> And things are moving! Every chapter is bringing us closer!! I’m super excited for what’s to come and can’t wait to be writing some of the stuff on the horizon! :D The plotting has been so fun and I’ve got all these notes on my phone that I jot down throughout my day!
> 
> Also, I really hope you guys are liking Thomas cause he’s been growing on me—I love him!
> 
> Hope you guys liked it!!


	4. The Question Ain't If But When (Corvo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wanted to forget the assassin’s story on principle, disregard it as the words of a man who traded in lies and death. But he remembered the assassin’s intense eyes, gray and hard as steel. His expression, blank and serious—but there had been something tight and bound beneath that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of decent length, who’d’ve guessed?
> 
> Todays chapter title is also from Aloe Blacc’s Ticking Bomb!

Corvo stumbled through his office window and forcefully snapped it shut behind him. He stared unseeingly out the window, into the night. It was an unusually clear night for Dunwall, and spare stars glittered in the sky, but he didn’t see them. Instead, he saw his dim reflection in the glass. His gaze swept over his tired face and found his own eyes. He studied them. They were dark, and shadowed, the night making them as unreadable as the Outsider’s.  
  
He turned away from the window towards the dark office, jittery and exhausted all at once. He hadn’t allowed enough time between blinks, and his connection to the Void felt fleeting and stretched thin. His bones ached. He went to the armchair in front of the unlit fireplace and fell into it, leaning his head back and looking up at the dark ceiling.  
  
He had let Daud live. _Again_. And he wasn’t even sure why.  
  
He thought back to fifteen years ago. He remembered making his way through Rudshore, quiet and unseen, burning with rage. None of Daud’s men had caught sight or scent of him. He remembered finding the assassin in his chambers, recording an audiograph, admitting regret for what he’d done. It had stoked the flames of Corvo’s rage. Then the fight, a barely remembered blur, until the man was on his knees pleading for his own life as if he deserved it. And through some depth of mercy that Corvo hadn’t known he’d possessed, he’d let the man live.  
  
On one condition. That he _never_ return to Dunwall.  
  
And now, when the man returned, going back on his promise, Corvo didn’t kill him. He stayed his blade a second time. It seemed that Daud wasn’t the only one who couldn’t keep his word.  
  
He ran over the confrontation from earlier again. He felt a spike of—anger, shame—he’d been so focused on Daud under his blade that he hadn’t heard another approach, had been unaware until there was a blade on his own throat, mirroring the one he had on Daud’s. An amateurish mistake he hadn’t made in years—decades. He’d been out-maneuvered, forced to retreat.  
  
Then Daud had spun his story. A coup. Lead by a witch. Who was backed by the Duke of Serkonos. It sounded ridiculous, like something out a five-coin novel. Corvo nearly laughed at the thought. He wanted to forget the assassin’s story on principle, disregard it as the words of a man who traded in lies and death. But he remembered the assassin’s intense eyes, gray and hard as steel. His expression, blank and serious—but there had been something tight and bound beneath that. And the words: _I owe it to you, don’t I?_ They had sounded…unplanned.  
  
Corvo sighed through his nose and slouched forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging, thinking.  
  
As Spymaster, Corvo had a large network of people under his command, spread out through not only Dunwall and Gristol, but the other islands as well. Corvo was all too aware of the unrest among the nobles and commoners alike; with the Crown Killer still on the loose, there was tension between the Crown and the masses, a tension that could easily upend into chaos. But not yet.  
  
As for the Duke, he had enough eyes in Serkonos to know that he was doing his job poorly, with poverty rising daily. But the Duke so far seemed only young and dense—selfish—not yet understanding his responsibility. Another problem, but not the one Corvo was looking for. He had trouble imagining that the Duke would be capable of effectively planning a coup.  
  
Corvo rubbed his temples, feeling a weary headache coming on. He wished Theodanis were still alive. Serkonos was suffering without him.  
  
Corvo stood. His body ached. He was so tired he could hardly think anymore. He mentally began to file everything away, making his way to his quarters, stripping off his clothes as he went, and tumbled onto his bed, not even bothering with the blankets.  
  
Sleep, first. Then, he would plan.

~

Corvo stood in front of Slackjaw’s large, dark wood desk. Slackjaw—Corvo would always think of him as such, no matter that he now went by Azariah—sat comfortably behind his meticulously kept desk, leaned back in his chair. He’d long since shaved the beard that had made him so distinctive. Now, no one recognized him for who he was, and he moved in much different social circles than he used to.  
  
“When did you come by this information?” Corvo asked.  
  
“Just today.” Slackjaw said. “Early this morning.”  
  
One of Slackjaw’s lackeys had gotten in contact with one of Jameson’s men. It had been before noon when Corvo was informed that Slackjaw was requesting a meeting. Now it was just after one.  
  
“From who?” Corvo asked.  
  
“One of mine,” Slackjaw said, blase. “She’s in for a promotion, discerning eye like that.”  
  
Corvo stared at Slackjaw. Slackjaw raised an eyebrow at him, the hint of a smile on his mouth.  
  
The information Slackjaw had provided was concerning. An ornate ship—Slackjaw had used the words “ridiculously fucking wealthy” and “look’d like official nonsense”—had arrived very late the night before at a dockyard rarely used for large vessels. This on its own was only odd. However, Slackjaw mentioned that guards had helped unload the ship and a railcar loaded with crates had made its way to Dunwall Tower. _That_ was concerning. Not to mention the timing seemed…suspicious.  
  
But, perhaps, the most suspicious thing in this mess so far was that Slackjaw had _volunteered_ the information. Slackjaw didn’t go out of his way to help Corvo, and therefore the Crown. The man had to be asked, sometimes even bribed.  
  
There were no coincidences in Dunwall.  
  
“I see,” Corvo said. Slackjaw continued to not quite hide a smile.  
  
What Daud had told Corvo the day before had him on edge. Though Daud was an enemy he’d like to ignore, it would be idiocy to do so. He’d already told Jameson to put more eyes on the Duke, closer eyes, but it would take weeks to get back anything useful. He’d combed over everything he had that could point to something on the scale of a coup, but he hadn’t found anything promising.  
  
And now Slackjaw came to him with this ship. Corvo knew this was a piece of the puzzle, and all these pieces—Daud, Slackjaw, this ship—were connected.  
  
“I’ve heard the Knife of Dunwall is back,” Corvo said.  
  
“S’that so,” Slackjaw said. His faintly amused expression didn’t change.  
  
Corvo eyed the man.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll let me know if anything else interesting comes up,” Corvo said.  
  
“I’m sure I will,” Slackjaw agreed.

~

Corvo left the Estate District and went across the Wrenhaven, finding the ship where Slackjaw said it would be. It was indeed a beautiful ship, particularly the figurehead, eye-catching and shining under the afternoon sun. A woman wreathed in roses. His eyes spotted the name on the side of the ship. _The Conquest._ A prickle of unease went up his spine.  
  
He didn’t find the ship logged by either the port-master, or the guards. Corvo searched the ship, but there was nothing to find, and no one on board. It was devoid of any information that would point him in the direction of the owner, or even any of the crew that was required to man such a ship. _Where was everyone_?  
  
Corvo stood in the library, idly scanning titles, finding nothing but bland history books. His skin itched. It was as if the ship had dropped out of the sky into the bay. The ship shouldn’t be there, yet he was standing in it.  
  
Another thing to bring to Jameson’s attention. The list was becoming too long for his liking.

~

He made it back to the Tower by evening. The place was in a flurry of activity with the commemoration of Jessamine the next day. The throne room was being prepared with flowers and paintings and whatever else the palace decorator felt was needed, and the kitchen was bustling with preparations for the hors d’oeurvres and drinks that would be served to those in attendance. It was as if the commemoration was a celebration, and the thought made Corvo’s stomach turn.  
  
The last time he’d been in the throne room was days before when he’d done a walk through with Ramsey, discussing which guards would be present and where they’d be positioned. He’d since avoided the throne room, easy enough with it being effectively closed for preparations, and Emily taking only the most necessary audiences in her office. He didn’t want to see the decorations that were inside. He’d face it on the day of the commemoration, and then not be forced to see the farce of it again until the next year.  
  
Corvo used the rest of the evening to comb over shipments received the night before. He visited the storage facilities and the checkpoints. He spoke to the guards that had been on duty the night before. They confirmed that shipments had been received late in the night, and it was marked in the records. There were multiple shipments of various items that had been delivered in the night, and Corvo inspected all of them. He found crates of food, clothing for employees, dishes, new weapons for the Watch, and an assortment of fabrics in dark colors. Nothing out of place. Corvo was forced to put his suspicions aside for the evening.

~

After dark, Emily found Corvo and they made their escape to Old Waterfront. They climbed over rooftops and through dirty alleyways—with no powers. Emily knew about his…abilities, but he never used them around her, and he had always remained silent on the matter when she asked questions as a child. She hadn’t brought it up for years now, but Corvo often caught her eyes on his left hand, hidden beneath blue cloth.  
  
Emily was wearing the new clothes she’d had specially made for training and fighting. She was in the process of remaking her entire wardrobe with such utility in mind. The colors were muted and dark, blues and purples, and the fabrics used were similar to Corvo’s own attire. It absorbed more light than it reflected and was difficult for blades and projectiles to cut through. Unfortunately, no clothing in the Isles could yet block a bullet.  
  
And there was nothing at all that could block a knife to Emily’s bare throat.  
  
Corvo’s thoughts stuttered on the image. He imagined someone blinking across rooftops towards Emily. They slammed into her, perhaps expecting an easy kill—a flash of Jessamine—but Emily defended herself with all the skill Corvo had taught her. It wasn’t enough. The man blinked behind her. She wasn’t prepared. It took only a moment for the blade to open her throat.  
  
“Father?” Emily looked faintly concerned.  
  
Corvo blinked at her. He found himself in their usual training grounds, amid the abandoned warehouses that had become familiar to him. The smell of the river was thick and unpleasant in this part of Dunwall, fish guts and stagnant water. The buildings around them were old, rusted. Far off, there was the mournful sound of a whale, awaiting its fate in a distant slaughterhouse.  
  
“Inside,” Corvo said, nodding to one of the warehouses. It was one that they often used as a sparring ring, long abandoned. He had planned to test her skills in stealth that night—his plans had changed.  
  
The inside of the warehouse was cavernous and empty. Dark. A couple of rats skittered away from them as they made their way to the center of the building, steps echoing. Corvo bent, turning on a whale-oil lamp that sat on the floor. From one, to another, he went around, clicking them on until a broad ring of bluish light lit the center of the warehouse. The light didn’t reach the walls or the ceiling.  
  
“What are we doing?” Emily asked.  
  
“Sparring,” Corvo said, turning around. The lights cast multiple shadows across the floor. He grabbed his folding blade from where it hung at his waist, snapping it open.  
  
Emily immediately reached for her own blade, within her coat. Hers was a folding blade as well, modeled after Corvo’s, though constructed somewhat differently since Piero had passed many years ago. He had gifted it to her on her twenty-first birthday. He hoped it would serve her as well as his own blade has served him.  
  
“Any moves in particular?” Emily asked, sword slanted across her body, defensive, eyes sharp.  
  
“No,” Corvo said, settling into an offensive stance. “Defend yourself. Prepare for the unexpected.”  
  
“We’ve done this, recently,” Emily said.  
  
Corvo hummed, not quite answering.  
  
They slowly circled each other for a moment, within the ring of lights. Emily carefully watched him as Corvo planned his attack. Her steps were careful and quiet, not even a whisper on the concrete floor. The lights flickered, and the shadows wavered.  
  
Emily swept forward. Corvo raised a brow. Her sword feinted right then slashed left. He blocked. A screech of metal. Her sword glanced off of his. She moved away, putting distance back between them.  
  
“I said to defend,” Corvo said. One side of his mouth was turned up in a half-smile.  
  
“Can’t wait all night for you to make your move, old man,” Emily taunted. She was smiling as well. The kind of smile she could never wear in court. It was wide, teeth showing, almost feral. Her eyes sparkled.  
  
Corvo was fully smiling now.  
  
“It’s better to go into a fight with a plan, Little Empress,” he said. Her eyes narrowed at him, face turning sharp and focused, eyes now gleaming with something to prove. She _hated_ being called that. So many nobles in court had referred to her as such growing up, disrespecting her station because of her age.  
  
Corvo advanced, forced her to raise her blade. It shuddered beneath his blow, but held. She quickly shifted her sword, causing his blade to slide down into her cross-guard. She bared her teeth, pushed his blade away, leaving him vulnerable for a moment. He dodged as she took advantage of the opening. Pride bloomed in his chest.  
  
He allowed the fight to continue for a few more passes, a series of advances and retreats, blocks and feints. It was time.  
  
When Emily struck at him from the right in an underhanded sweep, he dodged to the left. He saw her eyes follow him as he moved around to her side. Her sword was coming around, her body twisting as she reoriented herself to face him. Their eyes met.  
  
He made a fist with his left hand, reached for the Void, blinked.  
  
Suddenly he was behind her. He heard an intake of breath. Quickly and carefully, he hooked his blade over her shoulder and pressed the flat of it against the base of her neck, over her collar-bones. He couldn’t bring himself to come any closer to playing out his little vision from earlier. She froze, sword still raised, breath coming quick, the only noise in the large space.  
  
“That’s not fair,” she said, almost a whisper.  
  
“Fighting isn’t.” Corvo agreed.  
  
It was just as he’d imagined. He’d made a mistake, keeping this from her for all these years. Part of him feared that too much knowledge about the occult would make her complicit in his heresy—make her a heretic in the eyes of the Abbey, were they to ever find out. He wasn’t wrong, but, like training her, this too was necessary. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.  
  
He removed his blade and stepped back. She turned around, absently rubbing at her neck where his blade had been. Her eyes were in shadow, but he knew she was looking towards his left hand.  
  
“One day you might face someone with these powers,” Corvo said quietly. The words echoed. “And I might not be able to protect you.” He remembered Daud and his men approaching from the rooftops. Not just a single man with arcane abilities, but many.  
  
“You have to be prepared.” He said.  
  
Corvo could feel her questions and her curiosity, but she remained quiet.  
  
He raised his sword. She instinctively fell into stance.  
  
“Again,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the last chapter of what I feel to be set-up! Yaay!
> 
> Was it ever confusing in this chapter when Corvo was blinking and when he was _blinking_? If you guys think it would help I could italicize the _blinking_ , but if it hasn’t been confusing anyone I’ll leave it as-is, just let me know!!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed!!


	5. All the Rules Are Changing Now (Daud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d been here exactly twice in his life: The first, when he’d come to assassinate the Empress; The second, when he’d laid down the sword that killed her. He never imagined he’d be here again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chucks into the Void*
> 
> Title from [Black by Kari Kimmel.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUCxxp1IZdY)

It was the day of Jessamine’s commemoration. Despite the early hour, the Tower district buzzed with activity, Watchmen and citizens alike swarming the streets. The streets were lined with vendors selling food, drink, and flowers. Daud watched them all from a roof northwest of the Tower gates, keeping out-of-sight of the guards posted on the Tower rooftops. To the left of the gates, a metal plaque rested on the ground beneath a painting of Jessamine. It had drawn a crowd filled with commoners and even some nobles, and the ground around it was blanketed with flowers of all kinds and colors.  
  
A railcar ran up and down the street, ferrying nobles to the Tower gates. Guards quickly ushered invited guests through throngs of people and onto the Tower grounds, blocking anyone else from entering.  
  
What a different sight the Tower was, now. There were no walls-of-light, no arc pylons, and all of the guards stood firmly on the ground, not a tallboy in sight. Even in the face of all these people, there was nothing but the Tower Watch, and their own weapons to keep people in check. Daud had nearly forgotten what Dunwall had been like, before the rat plague, before the city and its people had become a pit of fear and desperation.  
  
Daud clenched his left hand and Transversed, between one breath and the next, onto the Tower roof. Damningly easy. A quick glance about with Void Gaze revealed the two guards he’d already spotted and a third he hadn’t. All three of them were posted facing the streets, conveniently out of his way.  
  
Daud knew the window he planned to watch the commemoration through, but somehow he instead found himself at the south end of the Tower. He looked down and saw—the gazebo. And beyond it, the waterlock. He’d been here exactly twice in his life: The first, when he’d come to assassinate the Empress; The second, when he’d laid down the sword that killed her. He never imagined he’d be here again.  
  
The grounds here were empty, closed to the nobles that were strolling around the front. There were four Watchmen, two positioned in front of the doors to the waterlock, and two below him guarding the doors to the Tower. They couldn’t see into the gazebo from their positions, he noted. As if there were no other choice, Daud Transversed.  
  
He appeared in the gazebo in front of the plaque. _What was he doing?_ He glanced around, nearly expecting to see blood spattered across the stones, a body—a scene that still haunted his dreams. There wasn’t, of course. He looked back to the plaque. His hands felt empty, and his sword weighed heavy on his hip. Suddenly, he wished he had something to leave there, it was tradition at this point. Last time, he’d left his sword. The time before that, a body.  
  
Fifteen years. The guilt still made him ill. So many nobles he’d killed, and not an ounce of regret for any of them. All of them had deserved it for some reason or another—and the Empress should have too. But…she’d been different. One out of hundreds, the only one.  
  
How carefully he’d researched for that job, him and his Whalers combing over maps, correspondences, Watch rotations. Months of planning, waiting for the right moment. He never questioned it, never questioned any job, certain that they all deserved to die on his blade. Now, he was here again, still trying to make up for that mistake.  
  
Daud bent down, brushed his empty fingers over the name engraved on the plaque. _Mother to Emily. Empress to Us All._ What else could he do? He had nothing left to offer. But, perhaps…  
  
“I will stop it,” he said, low, crouched over the plaque, fingers resting against the cold metal. There was no one but the black-eyed bastard to hear his words—if he even still held the god’s attention. “Whatever comes, I will—”  
  
Voices. Daud jolted up, glanced around. The guards by the Tower doors said something and a woman answered. Footsteps. Daud gave the plaque a final look and Transversed back to the top of the tower.  
  
He looked down. A slim figure in dark blues and purples made her way to the gazebo. It was the Empress of the Isles, Emily Kaldwin. He had no doubt.  
  
Daud watched as the Empress entered the gazebo and stood where Daud had been a moment before. He was too far away to hear if she spoke or was quiet. What would the Empress do, he wondered, if she knew her mother’s killer was above watching. He turned away and left her to her mourning.

~

Daud watched through a window set high above, and behind, the throne, balanced on a sliver of stone that jutted out under the glass. The columns that flanked the hall were adorned with roses from floor to ceiling, and nobles milled about, delicately holding the stems of their glasses and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres. There was another painting of Empress Jessamine near the throne, and another plaque. A small pile of roses was on the floor in front of it. The current Empress was seated on her throne, he could just see her head peaking above the back of it. She was flanked on both sides: to her right stood the Lord Protector, and to her left a Captain of the Watch.  
  
The doors at the end of the hall opened, spilling light into the dimly lit space. For a moment, Daud couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Metal monstrosities walked in, four bladed arms clanging together with each stilted step. Mechanical soldiers—Jindosh machines. The illustrations he’d seen of them didn’t do them justice. Guards came in behind the machines, but not the Watch—the Grand Guard of Serkonos, flanking the Duke himself. And behind them, more guards carried a litter.  
  
The nobles parted before the Duke and his entourage, the members of the Grand Guard moving to the sides of the hall, standing at attention. The mechanical soldiers did the same, raising their bladed arms in a salute as the Duke approached the dais of the throne. The Lord Protector was restless, and stood very close to the Empress’ side.  
  
The Duke knelt before the Empress. Daud couldn’t hear what was being said, could only watch as the Duke stood and addressed the room. Someone stepped out of the litter. Daud’s stomach dropped.  
  
It all slotted neatly into place then—far too late. The ship, the guards, the railcar, all of it. He may have arrived in Dunwall first, but he’d been a step behind the whole time. And now, what he’d tried to warn the Lord Protector of was happening before his eyes. On the day of Jessamine’s commemoration, no less. As if Delilah would’ve had it any other way; Daud remembered her theatrical nature well enough. He should’ve seen this coming from miles away.  
  
Daud watched as Delilah lazily approached the throne, talking all the while. She stepped towards Attano and dared to lay a hand on his cheek, which the man shoved away. Moments later, the mechanical soldiers sprang into action, the Grand Guard unsheathed their blades, and some of the the Empress’ own Watch turned on her. Attano killed three men in an open display of his powers and Transversed into Delilah, stabbing her clean through the chest.  
  
It should have been over, then. But Daud watched in growing horror as living vines burst from the floor, trapping Attano. The Empress was flung to the ground near him. Delilah pulled the sword from her chest, and she reached towards Attano’s left hand and _pulled off his Mark._  
  
The vines released Attano and he fell to the ground, where the Empress caught him. They stood, back to back, in mirrored defensive stances. They were surrounded. Then, Delilah did something that knocked Emily away, back to the ground, and reached her hand towards Attano beginning to say something. Daud had seen enough.  
  
Shattered glass and a heartbeat later, Daud Transversed into Delilah, cutting off her words mid-sentence and slicing at her neck. She stumbled back, clutching at herself instinctively, but there was no blood, no cut.  
  
“Daud,” she snarled.  
  
Daud backed off until he was at Attano’s side. He didn’t spare the man a glance, eyes locked on Delilah, keeping aware of the guards and mechanical soldiers that, for the moment, were content to watch.  
  
Delilah smiled thinly at them and vanished.  
  
“Corvo,” the Empress said, voice tight.  
  
To their left, Emily knelt, Delilah behind her, pressing Attano’s own blade to her neck. Daud heard Attano’s breath stutter.  
  
“Daud,” she said, caressing Emily’s cheek, “What a surprise to find you _here_.” Delilah gripped the Empress’ hair and pulled, barring her throat further. To her credit, the Empress remained calm, lips pressed into a firm line. Her eyes flickered from Daud to Attano and back.  
  
“How does it feel to fail the little Empress after all, all these long years later?” Delilah asked. “After you went through so much trouble to keep her from me, too. It must be quite infuriating.”  
  
Delilah pressed the blade harder into the Empress’ neck and released her hair. The Empress didn’t move, her eyes boring into Daud. Delilah reached her free hand towards him and Attano, but Daud didn’t wait to see what sort of magic she planned to use—he dropped his blade, flung out his right arm, and blindly reached for the Lord Protector. His fingers dug into the man’s shoulder and he Transversed them both out of the throne room, through the window he’d come through.  
  
As soon as they landed, Daud let go of Attano. He glanced around, checking for guards, but the ones that had been posted there before were nowhere in sight. He needed to get off the grounds—with Delilah here, her witches wouldn’t be far behind and they’d be out for blood—  
  
Daud was shoved against the Tower wall. Surprised, he looked up. Attano’s eyes were wild, hands fisted in the collar of Daud’s coat. Daud raised a hand to—to somehow placate the man. Daud didn’t even have time to open his mouth before Attano punched him.  
  
Daud’s head snapped back against the stone. His vision whited out, cheek numb, tasting blood. Daud grabbed at Attano’s wrist, pushing it down before he could land another blow. Daud saw a large ring on the man’s hand. Perfect.  
  
“I said I’d kill you,” Attano snarled, eyes burning. “My daughter—” His mouth clicked shut, nostrils flared. His eyes flickered up, towards the window. Attano let go of Daud’s coat to clench his hand and _fuck_ Daud didn’t get the man out of there just to have him go right back in and—nothing happened. Right.  
  
Attano seemed to have the same realization at the same moment, eyes widening, then narrowing. His jaw clenched. He swallowed.  
  
 Blood trickled down Daud’s cheek, where Attano’s ring had cut him.  
  
“The Empress will live,” Daud said. Attano’s left forearm slammed against Daud’s throat. Daud grabbed at the man’s arm, but didn’t try to pull it away. He still gripped Attano’s right wrist with his left hand, keeping it at bay.  
  
“She will live,” Daud gritted. “Delilah needs her—to stand trial. She has no such need for the Royal Protector.”  
  
Attano didn’t loosen his hold. The man stared him down, and Daud looked steadily back. His eyes were dark, burning, and—there was a slight tremor in Attano’s hands.  
  
Two witches appeared behind Attano. Daud shoved the man aside. Attano went willingly, rolling into it. Daud barely dodged the burst of thorns one of the witches shot at them.  
  
“Oh, the old Knife is still fast,” one of the witches said, singsong. The other giggled.  
  
Attano stood now, in a fighting stance, but his hands were empty. So were Daud’s. They’d both lost their swords.  
  
Daud quickly Transversed the short space between him and Attano. The man grunted when Daud appeared by his side and roughly grabbed him by his shoulder. He didn’t wait for the witches to respond, quickly Transversing them away. Daud didn’t stop his Transversals until they were off the Tower grounds, high on the rooftops.  
  
Daud released Attano and backed off. He wiped the blood off his cheek with the sleeve of his coat. His cheek was beginning to throb. He grimaced.  
  
Daud paced to the edge of the roof, and looked over the Tower district. Where there had been crowds of people and vendors a mere hour before, it was now empty. The odd body of a Watchman laid in the streets. There were two Watchmen patrolling the streets now. Traitors.  
  
Attano approached the roof’s edge and stood next to him. Daud didn’t acknowledge the man, staying focused on the pair of guards as they stepped over a body, walking along the building Daud and Attano stood on. The guards were directly below them, now.  
  
Attano dropped from the edge of the building, silently landing on a balcony below, then dropped again. Daud hissed and Transversed. He appeared behind one of the guards and hooked his arm around his neck at the same moment Attano landed on the other. The Watchman slammed to the ground under Attano’s weight with a startled grunt. Attano gripped the man’s head while he struggled and bashed it into the ground, knocking him out.  
  
Daud removed the sword from the guard, now peacefully laying on the ground, and slid it into his own holster at his hip. The weight of it was wrong, but he wasn’t likely to get his old sword back. He then removed the man’s pistol, holstering it beneath his coat.  
  
Next to him, Attano did the same, also removing the guards leather sheath and clipping it to his belt. Attano stood and looked down at the guard, sword held tightly in his hand. He raised it—and slowly slid it into the simple leather sheath. Attano looked at Daud.  
  
“I’m going,” Attano said, he paused, left hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He glanced down at it. His left hand clenched. He looked back up, gaze hard. “There’s a hidden way into the Tower.”  
  
Daud remained quiet. Attano’s jaw squared.  
  
“You said you owe me.” The words sounded like they’d been pried out of Attano’s throat.  
  
“Lead the way, Bodyguard.”  
  
Attano studied him, then turned on heel, striding towards an alley.  
  
Daud followed.

~

Attano led Daud through the Tower district. They quickly knocked out any guards they came upon, hiding their bodies in dumpsters and alleyways. It wasn’t long before Attano stopped in front of a tall building. The side of it was smooth and it had no neighbors. Attano glanced at Daud and he understood. The only way onto this building was with a Transversal. Daud wordlessly gripped the man’s shoulder and Transversed.  
  
They easily made their way across the rooftops, up towards the Tower using pipes and air ducts, and finally climbed onto a large balcony on the Tower itself. Attano walked ahead of him, up to the door and made to open it, but it was locked. Daud could practically feel Attano’s anger radiate off of him.  
  
“Move, Bodyguard,” Daud said. Surprisingly, Attano did.  
  
Daud used Void Gaze and saw that the lock was a simple bolt—nothing as complicated as a tumbler. With a twitch of the hand, Daud used Pull and the bolt clicked. He opened the door and motioned Attano through.  
  
The man’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp. He walked through the door and Daud followed. They were in the interior of the Tower now, in a hall filled with old furniture and paintings. Daud followed Attano to the end of it, to another door. This door was solid metal. It had a handle but no keyhole. There was a diamond imprinted in the center of the door.  
  
Attano gave Daud a hard glance. Daud stifled a weary sigh.  
  
“I meant what I said,” Daud murmured.  
  
Attano didn’t give an answer but seemed to accept his words, turning away.  
  
Attano lifted his right hand and clenched it into a fist. Daud got a better look at the ring, it was black, some sort of signet ring. The cut on Daud’s cheek throbbed. The man fit the ring into the diamond on the door and turned his hand. The door clicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck guys, I hope y'all enjoyed that cause it was fucking hard to write. No idea why except that I worked on it on and off the last two weeks and basically everything from Delilah showing up onward was soooo hard for me. I discovered that writing action is difficult for me. I'm learning, if nothing else.
> 
> Also, I'm switching to bi-weekly updates. School finals are upon me, plus I kinda want more time to properly write and edit without feeling rushed.
> 
> Anyways, hope you guys liked it! <3


	6. Cut Me Deep, These Secrets and Lies (Emily)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The memory of Ramsey taking the ring off her finger resurfaced. Anger struck her like lightning to the Dunwall clock tower, and she felt her lips pull back from her teeth. The anger sharpened her, the throbbing of her head nearly forgotten._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I bet you all thought that this was abandoned! (It kinda was but inspiration finally struck shhhhh!) Nearly a year later :) :) :)
> 
> Today we're taking Emily's POV, as was always planned!
> 
> Chapter title is from the song [Madness by Ruelle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ar9Om-NcBFk). (Do y'all know that finding/choosing a song for the title is one of the hardest things??)
> 
> Please enjoy :)

Emily woke with a splitting headache. She blinked open her eyes and blearily saw the dark ceiling smudged above. She struggled to sit and the world spun, causing her to nearly lose her balance—but she caught herself with an arm. The right side of her head was more painful than the rest of it, throbbing in time with her heart. She carefully touched it and hissed.  
  
Looking around she realized she was in her office. Her brows furrowed for a moment as she wondered why she was there, why she was on the _floor_ , of all places, with her head nearly split in two. She gingerly moved herself to the nearest vertical surface, which happened to be her office door, and leaned against it. She breathed and rubbed her temples— _softly_ —as memories slowly began to come back to her, murky and tattered. It’d been her mothers commemoration. Was it _still_ her commemoration? Then…the duke…a woman…Corvo disappearing with…with the _Knife_ and… _Ramsey_.  
  
She jerked as the memories flooded back. She remembered now, fuzzy though the memories were. She’d been knocked out with a blow to the head—by Ramsey. A Captain of the Watch. Turned _traitor_. She remembered appointing him as captain—at Corvo’s recommendation, even. The betrayal stung for a brief, barely felt moment before it caught into a fire.  
  
Emily stood, using the door to brace her weight as she did so. Her head swam and she leaned against the door frame, caught her breath. She forced herself to straighten, clenched her fist, and that was _wrong_ , something was missing—she looked down at her hand and saw that her ring was gone. The memory of Ramsey taking the ring off her finger resurfaced. Anger struck her like lightning to the Dunwall clock tower, and she felt her lips pull back from her teeth. The anger sharpened her, the throbbing of her head nearly forgotten.  
  
Glancing around her office she saw that everything was still in place, exactly as she’d left it that morning—even the window by her desk was still open. She turn to face the door and quietly checked the handle. It was locked, of course, but it was best to be sure. Minding her head, she bent and peered through the keyhole.  
  
In the hall, she saw two watchmen leaned against the railing. There was blood on the floor—on their swords. _Traitors_. How many traitors had been in the ranks of the City Watch? For how long had they been hidden around her like snakes, _roaches_. Blood rushed in her ears. They would be crushed under her heel.  
  
Emily turned away and strode across the room, to the window behind the sofa opposite. They’d been fools to lock her in her own office, she thought, as she roughly slid the window open and climbed out onto the ledge. She knew Dunwall Tower better than any servant or guard—probably more intimately than most of its past rulers. She’d been scaling the walls and climbing the roofs of the building since she’d been a teenager. The only one who likely had a better understanding of the Tower was Corvo.  
  
This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d climbed out of her office window—though it was usually to avoid paperwork, not escape a coup. She ignored the pounding in her temples as she went along the ledge to the window that led to her quarters, which was also still open from that morning. She leaned around the edge of the window frame and peered inside. Two dead watchmen laid on the floor. They must’ve been the loyal ones. There was another body propped against the wall further in. It looked like—  
  
Emily’s eyes widened and she vaulted into the room. She lightly made her way across, stepping over the bodies of the guards without thought. It was _Alexi_.  
  
Emily knelt next to Alexi, who was laboriously breathing, a hand clamped to her side. Her hand and clothes were red. A hazy memory floated back to her of Ramsey stabbing Alexi with his—no, her _father’s_ sword.  
  
“Emily,” Alexi breathed, surprised. Emily pressed a hand over Alexi’s bloody one.  
  
“You’re alive,” Emily said, quiet.  
  
“Only just,” Alexi said, wry, her eyes dark and tired.  
  
“Wait here,” Emily said, squeezing Alexi’s hand before she let go and quickly moved away.  
  
“No, Emily,” Alexi said, urgent, voice wavering.  
  
“Wait,” Emily said, low and firm. She moved across her quarters to her bedside table, found what she needed, and immediately returned to Alexi.  
  
“Here,” She said, presenting a vial of health elixir to Alexi. “Drink this.”  
  
“It’s too late for that,” Alexi said. Emily stared her down and Alexi grimaced, but nodded.  
  
Emily helped her drink it, since Alexi’s hand was preoccupied with her wound. She downed it and coughed a bit when she finished. Emily refused to believe that it was too late.  
  
“Emily,” Alexi said urgently. She spoke fast, as if afraid that she wouldn’t have enough time to get her words out. “At the docks there’s a woman. She asked for the Royal Protector. Captains a ship called the Dreadful Wale. She’ll help. Leave through the safe room. Get out of Dunwall. Now.” Alexi shoved a sword towards Emily with her other hand, which Emily hadn’t noticed, distracted as she was by Alexi’s condition. She easily caught it. It was Corvo’s.  
  
Emily gripped the sword and looked down at it. The blade was red with blood—Alexi’s.  
  
“Go,” Alexi said. “Leave me and go. You have to make it out.”  
  
Emily looked back up at Alexi, her expression seemed determined. She gripped Alexi’s shoulder and embraced her.  
  
“Thank you,” Emily said.  
  
“You can thank me by going,” Alexi said, sharp, her tone allowing no argument. It was a familiar tone. Stubborn to the end. Emily smiled a little at it, but it was sad. She pulled back from Alexi and looked at her. Her expression was tense, determined, but there was something thin about it. It was hiding pain. Exhaustion. Emily was suddenly struck that this would be the last time she’d see Alexi alive.  
  
“Ramsey will pay,” Emily said, a promise. She rested her hand on Alexi’s again, and stood.  
  
“I don’t doubt it,” Alexi murmured on an exhaled breath, barely heard. Her eyes closed, as if she could finally rest now that she had delivered her message, but her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was still breathing.  
  
Emily made her way out of her chambers and into the hall. She didn’t look back at Alexi—she couldn’t. The only thing that allowed her to leave Alexi’s side was the anger roiling within her, and the promise she’d just made. She had to find Ramsey.  
  
The guards that had been standing outside of her office door were gone, but she heard voices echo up to her from the lower floor. She reached for her own blade, hidden in her coat, and found that it was still there. No one had thought to search her for a weapon. No one expected that an _Empress_ would be armed. She clumsily folded Corvo’s blade and replaced it with her own. Snapping her blade open was a relief and a comfort, the familiar weight of it in her hand a much better fit for her than her father’s.  
  
She made her way down the stairs, crouched low, feet light. Emily used every skill Corvo had ever taught her to make her way silently to the lower floor. She easily spotted the guards who had their backs turned towards the stairs. One was idly flipping through a book and the other was leaned against a door frame, looking out through it—in the complete wrong direction to see her coming.  
  
It was as easy as a stuttered breath to silently slit the throat of the man with the book. Before his body had even hit the ground, the other guard had met the same fate. The blood dripped off of her blade. She absently wiped it across a rug, the red making a vibrant arc against the white and cream of it. It occurred to her that she’d never killed someone before now.  
  
As Empress she sometimes needed to order the execution of people, and had observed executions in person. When she’d been a child, the first man she’d ordered the execution of was Hiram Burrows. There were others after him. Ordering the deaths of people was nothing new. It was a requirement of her position as Empress.  
  
But there was something different about killing someone herself, with her own hands, her own blade. Emily had often thought on the prospect of killing, especially when she’d been younger, still new to Corvo’s training. She’d always expected that it would happen during some desperate fight. That her hand would be forced in immediate self-defense. She had thought that maybe she would feel shock, remorseful even—or that maybe she would feel justified and righteous.  
  
Now, she felt neither. Instead, all she felt was burning, emptiness, and a vague sense of disgust—the kind she might feel if she stepped in something unsavory on the street.  
  
Moving through the Tower she stepped over the bodies of those who _had_ been loyal: some were watchmen, some were maids or servants, all were dead, blood blooming across the carpet or wood beneath their bodies. She only found a handful more of the traitors, and each one died on her blade before they realized what had happened. With each kill the burning and emptiness only grew.  
  
She found him in the throne room. She heard his voice first, and the sound of it conjured such a sense of revulsion that she thought that she was going to vomit. She watched from a door behind the dais that the throne sat upon. From what she could see, the throne room was a disaster. Bodies littered the floor, candelabras had been knocked over, and the roses that had adorned the pillars were torn down and scattered. Ramsey and two guards stood in the middle of the mess, and Ramsey was speaking to them.  
  
She could barely hear what he said over the rushing in her ears, but she heard enough to learn that he was after status, and gold. The gold that was hidden in her safe room, to be precise. The fool thought that he could get away with the murder of Alexi, high treason, _and_ make off with her wealth?  
  
Emily longed to stride into her throne room with all of the righteous fury that burned in her, and deal with the three of them at once. To fight them, blade against blade—to the Void with stealth. She wanted to force them to fight their Empress and fall to her. She would to be the last thing those traitors saw.  
  
She took a step forward, just over the threshold of the door, but stopped. She could hear Corvo in her mind, warning her against this course of action. His stern voice admonished her, told her that she was too brash and needed to use her brain, to be smart. _Think first, then act_. It was a well-worn phrase he’d told her countless times. Not without reason.  
  
She tucked herself back behind the door frame, not a moment too soon, as Ramsey turned from the two watchmen and started towards the door. She waited. It was only a few seconds, but they dragged against her like hours, body coiled and tense, blade gripped in a steady hand. She heard the dull thump of his boots against the wood floor moments before he stepped through the doorway.  
  
Emily sprung. Ramsey’s eyes widened with recognition and his face was already twisting into a snarl. He reached for his sword but there was no time. Her blade swept across his throat so quick and smooth that she thought she’d missed, but his throat opened in a neat line and the blood flowed, the same as every guard she’d killed before then. It was almost disappointing.  
  
She caught him before he could fall to the floor and make enough noise to alert the guards in the throne room. Ramsey gurgled and she grimaced as she felt his blood soak into her jacket, warm on her right shoulder. She quickly laid him down. He looked up at her with glassy eyes, mouth gaping. There was still a bit of life left in him.  
  
“Traitor,” she hissed, standing over him. She searched through his coat pockets for her ring, while his body convulsed and finally fell still.  
  
Emily found her ring and stood, getting her hands away from him as quickly as if he carried the plague. His body was crumpled beneath her, eyes empty, and blood sluggishly creeping across the floor. Killing him had done little to lessen her fury. Alexi was still dying—or dead by now. She was still betrayed by many in the Watch, by the Duke of Serkonos, and by a woman she’d never heard of. Little had changed. Still, something in her was satisfied to see how small and fragile the man was now, as much as a part of her was also furiously disappointed by how easy it had been. It disgusted her that _this_ was at least partly responsible for her current predicament.  
  
Emily put her ring back on her hand and clenched it into a fist, felt the familiar pull of it. If this ring ever left her hand again, it would be because she was dead.  
  
She turned back to the throne room and made her way in, careful and quiet. These last two rats would not get away. The disarray of the throne room worked to her advantage and she took the two guards by surprise, making quick work of them.  
  
Emily wiped her blade off on a fallen watchman’s coat and straightened to give her throne room a final look. The fallen roses, the bodies, and the blood marring what the room should be. She saw that the glass protecting the plaque for her mother had been shattered, and the painting of her was crooked, a breath away from falling face-down onto the floor. She couldn’t stop herself from going to it, straightening it, and brushing a finger against the frame as if in apology.  
  
She saw that even her throne was tossed onto its side. Emily knew that chair wasn’t light; it would take considerable effort to knock it over. She curled her lip at the sight. It told her something more of the character of that woman, her supposed _aunt_ , that she would do something so petty. A wonderful start to the that woman’s new reign. She hoped that her time here went just as well.  
  
Emily made her way out of the throne room, stepping over Ramsey’s body without sparing it a glance, and retraced her steps to her chambers. Alexi was now slumped further down the wall than when Emily had left her. Alexi’s eyes were closed, her hand still resting over her side—but it was slack. Emily went to her, gingerly touched her shoulder, but Alexi didn’t stir. Emily heard her breath come in short, shallow bursts.  
  
“I know it doesn’t change anything, but he’s dead,” Emily said. Alexi didn’t respond in the slightest, and a part of Emily felt panicked and helpless. She feared that the health elixir had only prolonged her suffering.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.  
  
She left Alexi. There was no other choice.  
  
She entered her safe room, and when the door sealed behind her she choked out a breath, then another, and another. A sob ripped out of her. She angrily wiped at her eyes. She couldn’t let herself fall apart, not now. She breathed and forced everything away, focused on the anger, focused on her task: find the Dreadful Wale. Leave Dunwall. Regroup.  
  
She entered the safe room proper. It was completely untouched from the last time she’d been there—escaping from her duties once again to read a book, and sip tea without worrying that someone would be able to find her. She could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that if she walked back into the Tower everything would be as it should, as it had been only that morning, and that this all will have been some terrible nightmare conjured by the Void.  
  
She shook herself from her thoughts and grabbed what she needed: the gold she could carry from her safe, health elixirs, a pistol and harness that she put on beneath her coat, and—she saw Corvo’s mask, in a box on the table. Its empty grin stared up at the ceiling.  
  
Suddenly, it came crashing down on her that Corvo, her _father_ , had disappeared, been taken by none other than the Knife, right in front of her. Ramsey, Alexi, and her ring had commanded all of her attention—but now that those things had been resolved there was nothing left to distract her from the fact that Corvo was gone. He could be dead right at that moment, or he could be knocked out on a ship, being carried away to some distant shore where she could never find him. Or he could even be hidden in her own city—there was no way for her to know.  
  
Emily delicately removed the mask from its box and turned it over in her hands, as if it was something fragile and precious. But _she_ was the thing that was about to shatter. Her entire life had been dismantled in a morning. Every ally, friend, and family member—taken from her in an instant. She was alone, completely. For the second time in her life.  
  
She clipped the mask to her belt. She would find him. She had to.  
  
Emily glanced around the room one final time to make sure she had everything she would need. She tried to reach for her anger again, tried to focus, but the anger slipped through her fingers like smoke. She was tired. Hollow.  
  
She forced herself towards the exit of the safe room, and absently pulled up her scarf to cover the lower half of her face. It wouldn’t do much to hide her identity, but it was better than nothing.  
  
She went to open the door, fist already clenched, ring nearly fitted into the lock, but before she could touch it the gears in the door began to whir and grind. She jumped away, blade in hand, and hid.  
  
Emily watched from her hiding place in the room that housed the gold—she’d shut off the glaring light and tucked as much of her body as possible behind what little of a door frame there was. The door finally clicked, and slid open.  
  
A man walked in. It took a full second for Emily to realize that she was looking at her father. Her breath caught. She very nearly revealed herself as Corvo walked further into the room before she saw that another man followed him. A man with a jagged scar across the right side of his face, and a fresh cut along his left cheek, she noted. She would never forget that face, a face that still sometimes haunted her nightmares.  
  
_Daud_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing felt a lot rusty, so I'm not sure how the quality holds up compared to past chapters. But, I tried my best, and worked on it for a few days before posting. I kinda wanted to wait until the weekend to post, but ended up unable to stop myself.
> 
> Also, I of course started writing again a week before the college semester starts. I want to try to start a posting schedule, but I'm just gonna go with the flow, for now anyway.
> 
> Never let it be said that comments don't do anything, or that it's pointless to comment on a seemingly abandoned story. I read every comment as it came in, and I finally got enough inspiration together to try to continue this story. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting, from the bottom of my heart. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!


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